Long Distance
by otherhawk
Summary: When you need a friend, sometimes distance is no object.


**A/N: Written for What's My Line on Section VII - the prompt was "I don't want to argue about that."**

* * *

Napoleon was dragged unwillingly out of a deep slumber by the shrill beep of his communicator. Ugh. This really wasn't the time.

Angelique stirred in his arms with a soft huff of irritation. "Could they make that thing any more annoying?"

"Sorry," he said, with a flash of a smile, reaching for where he'd left it on the nightstand.

With a decidedly sexy little wriggle, she climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. "Tell them that you are in bed with a beautiful THRUSH agent and you need to show me the error of my ways. Thoroughly."

Uh huh. He shook his head, holding up the communicator pointedly, and made a little – probably unwise – shushing gesture. "Solo."

Pouting, Angelique leaned her elbows on his chest, gazing at him reproachfully.

"It is I," Illya's voice came through the communicator. There was an odd whistling noise in the background, and he sounded oddly disconnected.

Napoleon frowned, sitting up, while Angelique rolled off him, rolling her eyes crossly. "What's going on?"

"I..." Illya paused. "There was an explosion. I hit my head."

Ah, hell. That wasn't good. And now it was easy to hear that Illya's voice lacked its usual focus. "Alright," he said calmly. "Can you tell me how bad you're hurt? Is it just the head injury?"

"I think...my ribs as well. And my head...everything is spinning. I do not like it." He sounded exhausted, his words slurred.

"Check if you're bleeding," Napoleon instructed.

There was a long moment of silence. "Is not bad," Illya said after a moment. "I think. It hurts to touch."

That sounded hopeful. Hell, what could he do if it wasn't? "Where are you?" Illya had been on assignment somewhere in the north of Finland. If Napoleon could get a location, he could at least send help.

There was another long pause. "I do not know," Illya said at last, miserably. "I called headquarters. They said they would send someone but it would be few hours. They said I should stay awake."

"Okay..." He breathed a sigh of relief. If help was already on the way, that made everything easier. But that was a big _if_ when Illya seemed quite so vague. "Just a moment, okay, tovarisch? Don't go anywhere."

He stood up and hurried out into the main room of the hotel suite, grabbing the phone and quickly calling the direct line to HQ. Luckily Linda was on duty; she liked him. "Has Mr Kuryakin made contact tonight?" he asked.

She sounded startled. "Oh, yes, Napoleon, just half an hour ago. He...he's injured, but don't worry, we've already sent a retrieval team. Their ETA is three hours, though." She hesitated. "We've lost contact with him for the moment, but - "

" - I've got him on the line," he interrupted, for expedience sake.

She went quiet for a moment, and he could hear the urgent murmur of conversation in the background. "Good," she said eventually. "Do you think you can keep him talking until help gets there?"

He smiled grimly. "Sure I can. If need be, I'll just pick an argument. Thanks, Linda."

He put the phone down and took his communicator in hand again. Angelique was standing at his elbow, her face unreadable. Silently, she held up his robe and he smiled and shrugged it on. "Still with me, tovarisch?"

To his relief, Angelique retreated discreetly towards the kitchen. He knew Illya would never want her listening.

"Yes," Illya said foggily. "But you are not here."

"No," Napoleon agreed. "I'm back in New York."

"Oh. You were in Florida."

"I got finished early," he explained. "And I didn't even see a single gator this time, you'll be pleased to hear."

"Oh," Illya said again, fuzzily. "I am cold."

"Are you outside?" he asked quickly.

"There is snow," he replied, and Napoleon was inclined to take that as a yes.

"Are you safe?" he persisted. "Are the thrushies looking for you?"

"There was explosion," Illya said, like that explained everything, and Napoleon tried not to let his frustration show. It was all too clear that Illya was hurt bad – concussed, probably.

"Look around, please," he coaxed. "What can you see?"

"Snow," Illya said after a second. "And rocks. And fire. Can snow burn?"

"Why don't you tell me," he said, eager to keep Illya talking.

"I cannot be certain," he said decidedly. "I shall have to run experiments. Many experiments. When I am home."

"You do that," he agreed. "Now, you sure you can't see any people?"

He could hear Illya moving. The wind howled in the background – he felt cold just hearing it. God, if Illya didn't get out of this soon...

"There is...nyet. No. He is dead." A pause. "Did I do that?"

"I don't know," Naopleon said honestly.

"My Mama would not like that I kill people," Illya said forlornly.

He closed his eyes for a second, a lump in his throat. "She would understand. Now. Listen. Can you see any shelter? A wall, a hill – anything that might get you out of the worst of the wind?"

"How many people do you think that you have killed, Napoleon?" Illya asked.

"I don't know," he said, and truthfully he didn't. He didn't even have the first idea how he could start to figure it out. "But I need you to focus, _please._ "

"Sorry," Illya said, sounding slightly stronger, or at least more coherent. "I...what did you need me to do?"

"Look for shelter," Napoleon said, thankful and patient.

"There is a wall," Illya said after a moment. "There was a building here. I think there was explosion."

"Probably," he agreed. "Can you reach it?"

"My feet are heavy," Illya complained, which at least suggested he was trying. "And I am cold."

"What are you wearing?" he asked, suddenly seized by a new worry. If Illya was out in the snow without any kind of winter gear, then even his tough-as-nails Russian partner would succumb to the cold before help could get there.

"Who are you talking to?" Illya asked confusedly after a moment.

"You," he answered patiently.

"Oh. I am not the one you would normally ask that question."

He raised an eyebrow. "Been listening in on my calls, pal?"

"We share hotel room. You talk loudly. I throw pillow at your head," Illya explained drowsily.

It took him a second or two to pinpoint exactly what Illya was talking about. "That was two years ago. And you were doped up to the gills and were supposed to be asleep for another four hours at least."

"The bed...was...comfortable," Illya said, yawning in the middle. "The ground is cold. I can't..." He trailed off vaguely.

"Get up," Napoleon barked, harsh and urgent as cold fear rushed down his spine. "Get on your feet right now. That's an order, Kuryakin."

"You cannot tell me what to do," Illya mumbled.

"Get up," Napoleon repeated intently. "You have to get up. You have to keep moving." He heard shuffling and waited, breathless. "Are you on your feet now?"

"I think so," Illya said seriously. "They are very far away. Are you still in Mexico?"

"No," he said, taking a deep breath. "I got back to New York this morning. Walk, tovarisch."

"I am, I am," Illya said, muttering a couple of other less salubrious phrases.

"Good. Now, are you wearing a coat, or - "

" - da," Illya agreed. "A yellow one. I do not like it. And the fur tickles my ear."

That was something at least. "It should help the rescuers find you," he said.

There was no answer.

"Illya," he called, and when there was no response his voice grew sharper. "Illya!"

"Моя голова болит. Почему я здесь...?" It was a whisper, ending with more of a moan than a word.

"Talk to me, pal," he said insistently.

"He said his head hurts and he can't remember what he's doing there," Angelique told him in a whisper, as she reached past him to pick up her purse.

He gazed at her, suspicious that she might be planning on calling in Illya's position to THRUSH, but she shook her head and exaggeratedly held up a magazine. Okay.

"Tonight all bets are off," she whispered.

He nodded, grateful, and turned his attention back to Illya.

"You're in Finland, pal," he said. "You were there to disrupt a THRUSH communication station. I guess you succeeded."

"There is no communication station...Napoleon, my head aches, and I am very tired."

Alright. He clenched his fist for a moment. "I know," he said, in a deliberately soothing voice.

It had exactly the effect he was hoping for. "Do not patronise me," Illya snapped.

"Why not?" he asked innocently. "You're the one complaining about being cold and tired."

Illya growled. "If you were here, we would see who was complaining."

"Right," he agreed. "Just like we saw who was complaining in the jungle last month, remember? Sweltering heat, mosquitoes the size of birds..."

"I was not complaining, I was merely expressing my discomfort," Illya said haughtily. "And as I remember, you were the one making a fuss over a few leeches."

He shuddered. "It wasn't the leeches, per se, it was more their _location._ "

"And you think I am the one who should be patronised?" Illya demanded.

"As I remember, you weren't exactly pleased when we reached the compound and you saw the size of the dogs," he said.

"I don't want to argue about that," Illya told him, sounding annoyed, irritated – but _awake._

"Sure," he said agreeably. "What's your preferred topic?"

A pause, and he heard Illya give a short laugh. "Thank you, Napoleon."

"You need to stay awake, partner mine," he said with a gentleness that didn't have a hint of his earlier patronising tone. "Help is on its way, but we need to keep you alive until it gets there. Now, I don't care if you want to argue, play twenty questions, or explain the inner workings of the Kremlin, but you are going to keep talking until you're safe. You hear me?"

"I can do that," Illya said, slowly.

"Yes. You can," Napoleon told him in a voice that would allow no argument.

Angelique appeared in front of him, holding out a steaming mug of coffee and a plate of sandwiches. He looked at them, then looked at her and mouthed ' _Thank you'._

She shrugged prettily, tossing her hair like it didn't mean a thing, and she picked up her magazine and headed to the bedroom.

He took the coffee and sandwiches and settled down at the table, ready for a long night.

"So," he said. "Have I ever told you the one about the old lady and the Spanish Inquisition...?"

* * *

 **A/N: So what did you think?**


End file.
